


Fades to Gray But Never Away

by dragonnan



Category: Captain America the Winter Soldier, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Movie Reference, PTSD, Protective Steve, Sexual Harassment, Team as Family, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-18 12:57:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2349221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonnan/pseuds/dragonnan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt/request involving Tony Stark and sexual harassment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MusicalLuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MusicalLuna/gifts).



> Past non-con (no details). EXTREMELY mild references to Avengers 2 (based only on the fragments of info we've seen thus far and, again, is highly non-specific and would likely be overlooked unless you were actually... you know... looking for it). Spoilerish for Captain America the First Avenger and Captain America the Winter Soldier as well as all Iron Man films.
> 
> Barely there, blink and you'll miss it references for "Not the Hero Type". No need to read that story before this one. (but seriously, why would you not want to read more ficcage?)

Ladies man. Earned that moniker longer after the “prodigy” label had grown stale and unused somewhere around his first growth of wispy beard. No longer the fresh-faced Doogie, he'd had too many years tossing back shots with the big boys. Too many years working his charm to finesse invites to the best keg parties his alma meter had to offer. Not given to hanging out with the woefully skinny, underage kid, no matter that they shared the same background of snobbery and privilege. But charm – a natural talent that never made the papers (at least, not in those days). He never had to think about it. It became habit. Like sarcasm and being generally awesome. Well, there's that whole thing they say about habits.

 

Della Lewis. He'd met her, the first time, in '98. Conference or... something. Lotta glamour and low cut dresses. Lot of stuffy old men drinking wine and wanting to shake his hand. Lot of pleading with Rhodes to please, for the love of God, set something on fire so they could shut that thing down. Funny – words barely formed when something else caught fire instead. Glittery dress, pink and white with a neckline diving nearly to her navel. Hair... he could live in that hair. Actually, those had been his first words to her.

 

So they'd spent the night. It had been nice. More than nice – spectacular, in fact. Mind-blowing? Yeah, he could put his stamp on that.

 

She'd left early – before the cleaning crew, a newly hired and bracingly naïve intern, could make her rounds. Little cliché, the note with the lipstick stamp. Still made him smile and he'd had it between his teeth while pouring a coffee later that morning. Never been a fan of similar mementos but that one... Even so, he'd lost track of the little slip of card stock. Crammed in a desk or pitched – he hadn't really thought about it after the second cup of caffeine.

 

Three years before he saw her again. Another conference, younger group this time. He'd felt at home among that crowd – movers and shakers. And she had been there. Red, this time. Like wine. He wasn't a fan of sequels but something... There was something.

 

Twice more after that, and then, Afghanistan. Months later, at parties, if he scanned crowds he didn't acknowledge it. Searching.

 

Then that night, shaking hands with a smallish man… face a forgettable, generic atmosphere... he'd seen a goddess in daring sapphire and red gold curls. Mouth dry shock when she'd turned and...

 

So, yeah, sure, lots of history and whatever. The fact remained, he'd had something nice. But now he had something better. And sex was great but, wow, it wasn't even the sex. It was... her shrugs and her eye rolls when he was a complete and utter turd, so he saw those a lot. It was waking up with gasping and pounding heart and having her limbs wrap around him. It was knowing he could show his grief. Knowing he could show his anger. Knowing he didn't have to charm because it was so much deeper than the glamour. It was knowing that she didn't need him... but she stayed anyway. And not because he was dependent (though, fuck yeah, he was) and not because he was broken (still with the dreams - nightmares) and not because he was great in the sack (please). It was...

 

He loved her. He, oh God, he loved her! Pounding heart that wasn't terror but also, kind of, was. The honesty he willingly expressed without the mask he wore for everyone else. Sex... that was a climax that tore open his soul and filled him with panic that he'd lose this. Lose her.

 

Once, he had lost her. Falling three inches from his fingertips.

 

She'd come back; but there were new nightmares, now, that shuddered him awake in the dark – her limbs around him to remind him it was all just a dream. Or the past.

 

One month after his penthouse became a new reef, he attended a summit detailing the environmental impact of the New York invasion. Lots of old men with deep but tight pockets. The presentations were detailed – wordy. Most of the crowd was nodding off by the third hour when they broke for refreshments. The findings made up graph after statistic after 5, 10, and 20 year projections. Stale, crammed with prepositions, not remotely triggering. Tony had dodged the cold sweats but was grateful for the coffee and donuts hiatus. He wanted this, though. Wanted... wanted a chance to fix. He fixed things. That was who he was. Mister Fix-it. The Mechanic. That suave character... that was the mask. Charm was great for greasing palms and... other things. But the charm was a bubble – a suit he put on for special occasions. Funny... how he found himself reaching for it less and less. Not so much for suits these days.

 

So when long fingers slid across his backside at the refreshments table, his coffee nearly painted the only suit he was actually wearing that afternoon. Armani was the only barrier between himself and that tickling touch – his full body jump reduced to an aborted flinch through pure will.

 

“You...” Not his best delivery – though not as bad as burnt eggs or massive stuffed bunnies. Unlocking the dry throat for attempt two, “Della.” He finally pulled a grin. “Brunette. Good look for you. Studious.”

 

Della shrugged a sideways tilt of her head and smiled widely. “Needed something new; which is funny because I'm feeling the need for something old.” Hands, demure as they clasped before her, managed to brush knuckles across his fly.

 

Accustomed to all manner of touching, brushing, clasping, and gripping, still Tony took a small step back. Things were different and not just his relationships. Space was a commodity he'd never valued so much, before. Before he'd been surrounded by it with a doorway spiraling closed at his back.

 

“Something battered, something bruised...” Barely whispered – broken up with the intellectual conversations around him.

 

“I'm sorry, what was that?”

 

Long hair covered her eyes as she bowed her head through another smile. “I like your suit.”

 

 _This old thing?_ Words that never would have made it to the back of his tongue nearly tumbled from his lips – idea of being off his game to a spectacular degree and noting her advances had never put him on edge before unless it was the edge of a mattress.

 

“Lot of years, Tony. I actually tried to see you a year ago but you were... occupied.”

 

“Hostile takeover. So you're still with that... thing?”

 

Slip of white teeth, improbably even, between the rounds of her lips. Pearls in a bed of roses – God was he sinking that far that cliche's were bubbling into his repertoire?

 

“That 'thing'? You mean, am I still working for the DoD? Yes, you could say I still dabble with defense.”

 

She always had preferred vague over specific. But then, they'd never been much for talkers. Funny, Tony would prefer the strict sense of “conversation” now. Granted, his last run-in with an old flame had been... well... really shitty. Guilt and betrayal tasted just as cloying and sickly now as it had then.

 

Movement around them was gravitating upstream – random stragglers pecking at the table of fussy meats and cheeses. Small enough to tuck in the cheek while still keeping that dapper charm and sophistication. Tony could play that game even if his cravings hedged towards greasy and fast.

 

Della brushed the backs of her nails down his tie. Tony smiled while slicing an incisor through his tongue to control the tremble in his fingertips.

 

Sexual invitations were old and trite. Part and parcel to being HIM and nothing he'd shied from no matter how much alcohol he'd consumed nor how many business meeting required his late arrival in the morning. He liked it, they liked it, and everyone went home happy. It had never been a big deal because it had never mattered. Had... never. Before he'd changed his Facebook status to “In a relationship”. Okay, not he personally – changed it. Of all people, Rogers had insisted on the public fan page and had gleefully, yes, gleefully decided be the Captain of the internet in the name of truth, justice, and spangly underwear. Between him and Romanoff giggling over Snapchat and Barton and the God of Thunderdome exploring the finer points of Twitter, the only sane and stable-ish member of the group was Bruce.

 

Fingertips walking up to his cheek brought him out of the mind wandering and back to the group as they were filing together back into the auditorium.

 

“Nice seeing you again, Del.” He caught her hand and pulled it against his lips. There was never meant to be anything permanent in their arrangement. Hell, going beyond that first night had been outside the norm anyhow. During the four years she'd been married, he'd kept their single encounter completely above board as well as above the waist. They'd had what they'd had. They'd never attempted to make more of it. And now, it was done.

 

Her smile back was warm. “You too, Tony.”

 

She was gone, then – black suit weaving in with the crowd of likewise dressed. The conference resumed and it was nothing but pollution control and ozone layers for the final four hours.

 


	2. Chapter 2

He hung back while the room emptied.

 

Conjecture and projections aside, the presentation hadn't needed to say the words without the pulse of “personal responsibility” goading the promise of a donation. Happy, the usual trigger man for carrying out the mundane task, the man's absence again felt with the embarrassing IOU offered rather than an endorsed check. Never one to carry wads of cash – rarely even credit. For a multibillionaire, Tony often borrowed petty cash from Pepper on the rare occasions he required physical currency. His word could buy islands but hell if it could score green tea with a shot of mint. He'd been known to buy the coffee shops rather than quibble over the three dollars and change. As it was, Happy was otherwise employed with Pepper, who was otherwise engaged at a conference in London.

 

Washroom pit-stop a must. At least one boon to lagging behind the class was his pick of urinals. Lots of black and cream marble – bronze tone knobs and faucets. He let himself lean over the pale oval of the sink while cool water bubbled across the backs of his hands. He stared at the strip of marble beneath the mirror rather than the drain beneath his fingertips. He swallowed with the tremor of restless unease blooming in his chest. Should have anticipated this. Stupid. Plenty of flunkies could have numbed their ass in his stead. Not as if he didn't have something occupying him back at the lab; innovative and just, really, badass. Hadn't been feeling badass as of late so having that thrill again...

 

Door handle hammering the wall tweaked a lurch through his limbs – jerk plunging his wrists under the cool flow and soaking his cuffs. Soft cuss as nudged off the tap and hooked a soft towel from the folded stack at his elbow. Half-assed squeezing the water from his sleeves, he turned from the mirror to rest his hips against the sink.

 

“Tony.”

 

Cotton fumbled and tumbled – reflex snatching it back mid-thigh. Del leaned back against a stall door – upwards tic of amusement at his startle.

 

“Uh...” Breathy stammer on the heels of still twitchy nerves, his thumb angled at the door with the blurt, all high-school tween nervous. “I-I... The ladies is on the other side of the hall.”

 

Laughter behind knuckles – louder than her sharp heels on marble. “Yes, but all the men are in here.”

 

The edge of the sink tried to cut a horizontal crease into his ass – wild image of his backside resembling a hot cross bun – before a roll to the right broke him from the corner and created a few feet of breathing space. “Not like you to hang out so late.”

 

Del closed three feet. Tony backed until the wall flattened his shoulders.

 

“Tony, have you ever wanted to get it on in public?”

 

Chin lifted up and away as her body closed the gap between them. “Google Stark, naked.”

 

“I intend to.” Teeth pinched the flesh of his neck. Palms shoved against her shoulders as the back of his head shot back and cracked against the wall.

 

“Ow, shit!” He clapped a hand over the roar of sharp pain – hearing her own yelp become a pitying murmur.

 

“Oh, sweetheart, I'm sorry!” Her fingers plucked at the grip he'd woven into his hair. “Here, let momma kiss it better.”

 

Fading stars were closing in around him as her lips sucked below his earlobe. Gasping and sweating must have been interpreted as need because her other hand, a forgotten appendage, suddenly cupped between his legs and squeezed.

 

“GAH! Stop!”

 

Her head lifted back but not fast enough and he shoved at her a second time – her heels stumbling her several feet. “Tony, what...?”

 

Shaking hard, now – eyes shocked wide and wet as he crawled along the wall until he found the door. No look backwards as he hauled it wide and nearly fell through. Empty hall was a dark channel slowly pulling tight. Hadn't felt this sick weave of dizzy wobble for months. Her clacking steps out the door after him speared panic through his throat.

 

“Hey, are you okay? Tony, you look sick. Let me help...”

 

“No! Just... just stay there – I'm fine, I got this.” Both hands held in the open air – palms held out to block her while his vision couldn't quite latch onto her face. An ugly shiver of nausea was moving in his gut but he'd vomit in a ficus before returning to the washroom.

 

His step back was mirrored in her step forward; even against his protest. Heat washed his cheekbones at the preadolescent pitch that bleated from between his teeth. Even his eyes felt hot.

 

“Tony...” Trailed off – worry going impatient, irritated. He shook his head and managed the six feet to the corner, across the hall, and to the bank of elevators. She didn't follow him, though it was a long enough wait for the doors to slide open that his escape wasn't exactly at roadrunner speeds.

 

He had one, final, snapshot as the doors started to close him in; arms wove tight beneath her breasts – eyes confused and hurt. And she was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

Night had sunk in by the time his mind started filtering back three blocks from Penn Station. Another stab of loss, knowing Happy would have, at the very least, trailed him on his blind wander through city streets. No sign of his current driver – no point calling with the tower only four blocks away. He'd walked further for a slice of deep dish.

 

The shakes had diminished to barely felt vibrations as he pushed through the double doors and into the comfort of familiar smells and warm light of the tower. Another elevator – up this time – gliding to a stop at the fifth floor.

 

The workshop was on this floor but it wasn't his first destination.

 

An hour later, shower damp and layered in soft gray cotton blend, he once more bypassed the workshop. His mouth was beach sand and his entire focus had narrowed to finding something cold and liquid. Memory said there was cranberry juice somewhere in the kitchen on that floor. A popular gathering spot, no guarantee it would still be there depending on which teammate had wandered through in the last three days. Pepper, specifically, was fond of Crantinis. But, then, she hadn't been home in nearly a week.

 

Clinking and sliding movement beyond the last corner meant he wasn't alone. Still evaluating if he was ready for humanity, he hung back and scratched at his shoulder. Well this was stupid. He shoved the conflict into a trunk and resumed his juice quest.

 

Rogers was leaning against the counter; not really shocking. Guy barely slept on a good day and there hadn't been many of those in the last six months. All those lovely super serum side affects added up to the ability to party all night and still being the most alert and sober guy to play designated driver the following morning.

 

Sipping at what appeared to be root beer, Steve waited while Tony dug to the back of the fridge for the juice. Only about a quarter of the container left, Tony found a large glass and upended the jug. Four long swallows soothed the dry click and left an aftertaste of tart tang in his cheeks. Steve slid his glass back and forth in its own condensation beaded on the countertop. “How was the summit?”

 

Cranberry juice swirled inside the glass hanging from Tony's fingers. “Oh, you know.” He sipped another half inch and coughed at the tickle it left behind – churking out a wheeze of follow up. “Lot of old guys in suits.”

 

Soda bubbles churned up as Steve reduced his own refreshment. Letting the glass rest on the counter, he nodded his chin. “What happened to your neck?”

 

One hand left his glass to rub skin he hadn't realized was tender. Wince and rise of tight prickles across the back of his neck remembering teeth against his throat – a hand clamping down between his legs.

 

“Walked into a door.” Wonky and out of sorts, he regretted the deflection as it tumbled out.

 

Blue eyes squinted under a sudden crinkle. Look that had cropped up a lot lately but, thus far, rarely directed at himself and never so intense.

 

“Tony, are you okay?”

 

God, it shouldn't have been hilarious but wild laughter hammered from his chest. “I... am...” truth or dare? Door one or door two? Lady or the tiger? Fuck, this time it was both. “Shit.” He downed the rest of his juice but didn't move to put down his glass. After a second, sniffing, he blasted out a loud breath.

 

“Bluuuuuuhhh. Don't let it fret you, big guy. Bad night of good drinking fixes a world of problems.” Finally pushing out of his slump, Tony clacked his glass in the sink and angled for the hall. Granted, beer wasn't really calling to him as much as his work bench.

 

“You know, you can talk about it.”

 

Steve hadn't moved other than to hunch over the counter. Thick arms mostly hidden in the folds of his hoodie. His glass was nearly empty.

 

Tony grinned. “Not your area of expertise.”

 

“Try me.”

 

Stalemate of fifteen seconds. Tug backward equal, unexpectedly, to the tug forward. Not the same, now, as his years working with a partner he'd trusted as much as anyone could trust a wealthy warmonger. In past months, Tony had watched as everyone in the group, at one point or another, had bent Steve's ear over cups of coffee or curled around beers. Nat, in particular, had formed a bond that rivaled her attachment to Barton. A lifetime of being a loner still held Tony apart from most of them, though. Sure, he jawed at Bruce when he needed to vent but Steve... He may call him old man but he couldn't help seeing a kid every time he looked at him.

 

And yet...

 

“You got beat up a lot. As a kid, yeah? Tough era – the forties. Dad used to talk about it sometimes. After he'd had a few and on the few nights he'd felt magnanimous.” Rapid-fire lead-in didn't offer opportunities for rebuttal or reply. Most things easy to guess or extrapolate even without Pepper sharing secrets that weren't really secrets. So she got along with the team more than himself. She got along with everyone more than himself. Should just have Character Flaw tattooed across the scar in his chest and call it a day.

 

“Watched a lot of documentaries on it. The war, I mean. Well, and your stuff. Propaganda films – spangly dancers, the whole bit. You looked miserable by the way. Can't blame you – that suit looked like it was tight in the goodie bag.”

 

“Tony, what...”

 

“Anyway – the dancers. Any special lady ever light your rocket? I mean, I know there wasn't a whole lot of time once you joined up and all but before, you know...”

 

Root beer left to lose its last few bubbles of carbonation, Steve walked around the counter. Probably evaluating how much poundage his grip would require once his late night companion started to really lose it. Wouldn't be the first melt down among his peers. But no, he was fine. Totally fine.

 

“Big changes in those years. Women in the military wasn't so hush hush. You ever... I mean, you'd never, obviously...”

 

If he'd had a point in mind it was buried under spinning pixels. He'd expected a sigh – irritation – interruption. Steve, instead, sat on one of the stools next to the counter. “Tell me.”

 

Big blink. Not so much as a blush on the guy. “You amaze the shit out of me, you know that? No, I mean it. You don't back off from anything. Even when it's someone you care...” he gulped. “Hardest thing... betrayal...” He waved his fingers in a vague circle. “You know that phrase about wake up calls. Ob... I had one of those. Old business partner – old news. History. You'd think I'd have learned that lesson.”

 

The stool creaked as Steve leaned forward over his knees. “Did something happen? At the summit? Is it your PTSD?” Hadn't referred to it as shell shock since that first time. Wikipedia addict, late nights revising pages – at least it wouldn't leave a guy with a hangover, reading late into the morning. Certainly not for a guy who could no longer suffer sleep depravation.

 

“Kinda? I mean, yes – sorta but – well, no – I mean, not like...” He huffed and scrubbed fingers in his still damp hair. Steve was doing stellar with that listening thing. He was even still awake, which was impressive. Eye rub, as subtle as he could make it. Blow it off as exhaustion if anyone asked. Hell, like they hadn't seen every emotion he had to offer by now and even exhaustion wouldn't explain why he had to chew through his lip to keep it steady. “Different kind of flashback...” Probably would have to have been a super soldier to even hear that whisper.

 

Old memories. Faded and dark – foxing at the edges. Like stained Polaroids. Fifteen year old kid and brash – tongue quick on the draw, that spoon had been more brass than silver. Never been a champion at making friends. Character flaw. But, even then, he drew attention for more than his pocketbook. Hard, being a young kid in a world of adults. Truly on his own, then. No dad, no mom, no contingent of bodyguards. Didn't want them and dad had left it up to him to make that choice. “Your life, Tony, just don't cry to me when someone takes a shot at you.” Nothing lighthearted or teasing – the words said with dismissive irritation. Love you too, dad. Funny... it was never armed thugs...

 

She'd been twenty two. He'd been dazzled. Lack of experience, clearly a turn on... for her. Study date encompassed every cliché while leaving out the reality of a kid who'd truly imagined a physics lesson in the strictest mathematical sense. Made for a great story to anyone asking about his first time. They never connected it to his other first time, the next day, and the birth of a lifetime habit. Amber colored memory loss...

 

Hadn't been thinking of that memory, today - earlier. Couldn't erase it now with it surging to clarity on the heels of fresher experiences. Same slick rise of sick that willpower alone barely muscled down.

 

“Met someone, there. Known her for years. Well – known, like, _known_ , you know? Or... thought I knew...” Lip lick and lift of his eyes but not meeting eyes. “Got any more of that?” Finger waggle towards the mostly empty glass still popping bubbles.

 

Steve nudged a thumb over his shoulder. “Few bottles left in the bottom drawer. There's grape in there too.”

 

“Root beer's fine.” Sticky, syrupy, medicinal above 40 degrees. Pure heaven in a frosted mug. Ah, God bless America – chilled and heavy glassware in the freezer next to a very old bag of peas. Had to credit Steve's taste in classic soda. No plastic bottles or aluminum cans. Old school glass all the way, not to mention the off brand with the handmade label.

 

Should have rethought the distraction when that icy bubble bath of carmel colored sugar surged across an unstable gag reflex. Eh, the sink was close. Not even embarrassing – hunched over and heaving a second after his oversized gulp. “Oh shit, oh fuck!” Carbonized bubbles rushing out his nose like lit gasoline. Empty void – breathe deep – relax – not a marathon purging but a tiny blurb of acid. Still shaky as fuck but Steve had acted like a champ – massive arm a support that led him back to one of the stools.

 

“What happened to you? Were you hurt? Do I need to call Pepper?” Listening was fine and dandy but apparently things got clinical if a guy tossed his cookies.

 

“M'fine – fine, God no!” Batting away fingers but hell if he could so much as shove the guy's pinkie if he didn't feel like moving. No chance to even dredge up the first thread of anxiety, though, as Steve made some space by grabbing a stool on the other side of the counter.

 

“That woman you met... did she do something to you? Hurt you? Is she dangerous?” Already itching to grab the shield and slap that star on his chest. Though, couldn't really blame him when the unspoken question sat there between them.

 

“She's not Hydra. Well, I mean, shit, not as far as I know. Never really came up...” Too occupied with digging her nails into his boys to bring up new employment opportunities. His fingers needed something other than themselves to fiddle with.

 

“You ever...” Was he really going to ask this? Puking was more pleasant. “You ever have someone... in your space and... like, it can be someone you like but, like, you need your own space... but you aren't a guy who's known for needing his space, you know? I mean, maybe you got space issues now that you didn't realize you had and suddenly you aren't, somehow-” His fist smashed on the counter, sudden enough that even Steve jumped.

 

“I told her no...” Two fingers dug into the corners of his eyes.

 

Steve wasn't blinking. Not that Tony could be completely certain because he wasn't looking. But he could feel it. Could hear it in the steady breaths.

 

“Tony, did she...?”

 

“No. No – it wasn't...” Like that. Not really. Not _really_. Gropey, touchy – fine, sure. “It was just... I wasn't looking for it, but...” Shit, he could hear the wobble in his own voice – another betrayal with spilling words. “You still feel this is your area, Cap?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Snort was a great sinus clearing device. Kinda rude after all the hand holding but, please.

 

Other guy didn't seem terribly put off after being put off. And who knew what he may have seen at the hands of the Nazi army? Or Hydra? Not groups who gained followers with bake sales and pet adoptions.

 

“I've been there. I know how it feels.”

 

The laugh was pitchy and wild. Cause, yeah, that happened. Enough of an uncontrolled bark, he missed the first few words that followed. The ones he did hear... Even panicked mirth died fast with what came next.

 

“Here I was, still getting used to just breathing without the fear that the next inhale would trigger a coughing fit. Or walking without pain in every muscle and joint. What I looked like... you know, it scared me to death?” Perfect fingers pushed perfect hair off his perfect forehead.

 

Tony shifted attention to his own fingers. Long, nails clean and trimmed. Immaculate, currently, having gone from conference to shower to kitchen. Wondered what he'd feel to wake up to them thicker – stronger – able to crush small cars if he lost his temper. If Iron Man had been a biological change rather than just a tricked out suit.

 

Steve pulled his bunched sleeves down to his wrists. “I was still used to being the little guy. I was still used to being ignored. The, uh, the war films and stage productions... well we were all just doing a job. Sure, some of the dancers flirted now and then, but most of them had someone else. They were there because they had loved ones in the service.” He smiled. “If I didn't look in a mirror, I still saw myself as that skinny kid. And... I missed being him. Not being sick but... just being... me.”

 

Tony had seen the old photos. They'd sold papers back in the day – scrawny kid joins the military and suddenly he's Hercules reborn. Recruitment efforts had surged as every down and out had flooded the offices looking for his own, literal, shot. A little super juice to make the world's greatest Army.

 

“It was months later, after that first rescue mission. Got a lot of attention for that.” He laughed – crossing his arms tight across his chest. “There was a woman at the research base... a Private. She... felt it was her duty to personally... thank me... for helping to save those men.” He scratched a bicep before scrubbing at his face. “It was strange. I wasn't sure how to react to her. She was attractive but... I didn't want her. But I didn't know how to tell her no without hurting her, either. And part of it felt good; having someone think you were worth something. It was... just a kiss. It was a good kiss but... What made the least sense was feeling so awkward afterward. Ashamed. And there wasn't any time to think about it, then. No time for anything.” He unwrapped the grip on his limbs and let them settle on the counter instead. Tony, breathing easily now, had mirrored the move and was half slumped over his forearms.

 

“I don't know exactly what you went though,” he held up one hand, “and you aren't obligated to tell me. I know it hurt you and shook you up. And I know how hard it is to talk about it. To even know how to talk about it.” He straightened again, leaving just his fingertips resting on the counter. “Tony, you can talk to me any time, and I can promise I will listen. I know we don't have a great track record... but that doesn't mean we can't be there for one another, either.”

 

Tony had locked attention on the counter. His creaking whisper, “Go team”, slid out as a place holder for something more profound. Hadn't quite managed profound, yet, but he planned to put someone on that in the morning. Now, though, he was just so fucking... tired. But surprisingly not uncomfortable for this little sharing session. First time root beer was the catalyst for emotional outpouring – who knew something without hops could get a guy to reveal his deepest darks?

 

“Clint and Nat are hosting a movie night upstairs. How about leave the shop alone for the evening and come on up?”

 

“That's, what, three nights in a row?”

 

Steve pulled a smile that was normally reserved for cute puppies on YouTube. “It's been a slow week.”

 

His fingers curled, wanting a tool and a project. Any yet... going back to solitude... enjoying his own brain and everything lurking there... What the hell.

 

“Clint pick the films, or Nat?”

 

They both stood, Steve moving to the fridge to grab a few more sodas. “Nat. We're saving Arnold and Sly for Friday. Tonight's features are Willie Wonka, Pete's Dragon, and The Brave Little Toaster.”

 

Self aware tech. Tony could get behind that. He buried his hands in the front pocket of his sweatshirt – finally feeling the first nigglings of relief in however many hours as they headed for the elevator.

 

“Just make sure Bruce is in charge of the popcorn. Last time Barton made it we had to call in SWAT.”


End file.
